Pann’s Feeders: Jeremy

“Cubby, I’m home!”

A tingle of nervous anticipation passes through my body at the friendly greeting. In a normal relationship, I might be excited to see you, but you and I both know this is no normal relationship.

I mean, I’ve been tied down in this recliner for I don’t know how many weeks now, and that’s not normal, is it? All I can do is lie here, watching TV — as much as I can see around the curve of my bloated belly, anyway — and yet you seem to love it. That can’t be normal either, can it?

How can you love your trash bear so much?

My stomach churns at the rustle of a fast food bag, my usual meal after you’ve had a long workday and don’t feel like working.

And then you’re standing over me, smiling in my face. A slender possum, much younger than me, with unkempt gray fur and scraggly whiskers, in a plain white T-shirt with pit stains from a long day of hauling whatever.

“I hope you’re hungry,” you say. “I brought you — ”

You wrinkle your nose in your little possum way, acting as if you’re just noticing the smell, as if we didn’t do this every day.

“Mmm, we should check your diaper, shouldn’t we? Smells like you’ve made a mess…”

You move towards my feet and lift them up, tsk-tsking at the mess that’s overflowed my padding and soaked into the upholstery.

“Pann, I’ve told you, we can’t afford for you to keep going through diapers, but you keep filling them.”

Resting my ankles on your shoulders, you lean in to undo the tapes holding the diaper shut.

“I know you’re into it, so I let you keep wearing, but you know we can’t throw this away yet, no matter how messy you’re getting.”

“I know, daddy.”

You smirk at my blush and the sight of the mess in my diaper — what must be nearly a week’s worth of shit covering a fat butt plug.

“How long did the plug stay in this time, cubby?”

Your grin gets crueller and crueller every time.

“You know it doesn’t stay in anymore at all, daddy…”

“That’s right, kid, we’ve done a lot of good work destroying that hole of yours. Think you’ll ever be able to keep it in again?”

I whimper out in worry. The diapers had stopped being optional a long time ago, really; I already couldn’t keep any of that in. But you’ve been working my hole like you never want it to close at all. Building a yawning gape eternally hungry for your arm. You haven’t said it yet, but I’m sure you’ll want me prolapsing next. A hole so loose it can’t even keep itself in is right up your alley.

You reach into the pile of shit with a squelch and grab a handful. “Well, I know it’s hard for ya, cubby, but ya gotta hold it in till you’re budgeted for your next diaper. Think it’s only a few days from now. Maybe another week.”

Your fist slides into my loosened hole like reaching into a trash bag and deposits the shit back inside.

“Attacub.”

My hole twitches around your arm weakly. Even though the plug never stays secured in place anymore, the diaper doesn’t fully let it fall out, so my hole is worn out from never getting any rest. Your arm slips out wetly and you repeat the operation, grabbing more of the mess that’d been overflowing my diaper and stuffing it back in my ass like a Thanksgiving turkey.

My little cock is hard, somewhere under all the fat you’ve been growing, and the way the filth has been spreading over my crotch and thighs over the past few weeks of this play probably doesn’t help.

It takes a couple of minutes before you’ve ‘cleaned’ me up to your satisfaction and are pressing the filthy plug against my hole in your vain effort to keep all that mess in.

The plug slides right out as you’re trying to close the diaper back up, and I whimper. You grumble and push the whole thing inside my ass, base and all.

The plug slides right out again.

“Well fuck, cubby. Looks like we gotta add another X to the XXL. Those bigger plugs cost a lot though, and this is comin’ out of your diaper budget. This one you’re in though, eh, it can probably stretch a couple weeks longer to make up for it.”

I whine out as you shove the plug in deep, holding it there with one hand as the other works to refasten the makeshift tapes that had long ago replaced the ones the diaper came with.

“Whew.” You pick up the fast food bag with your filthy hands and sit on your stool beside me. “Bet you’re hungry after all that work, eh cubby?”

“Daddy…”

“Hush, kid.” You cram a fistful of fries into my muzzle, smearing it with grease and shit. “You wanted to grow for me. I want you growing for me. That means my little chubster trashbin needs to eat everything I stuff inside it. Isn’t that right? Daddy knows best?”

I struggle to chew and swallow it down. Don’t get me wrong, you’ve trained me hard enough that shit-covered food isn’t that hard anymore, nasty though it is; the struggle comes from fighting my guts, which haven’t had a chance to empty in ages and are complaining of the fullness.

Of course I can’t really protest with more than ‘mmph’ as you keep cramming more into my mouth, not even giving me a chance to swallow before the next handful goes in. The past few meals have been like this — you pushing me beyond my capacity, basically punching the food down my throat, and I waver between worrying you’re losing patience with me, and being turned the fuck on.

At least the stain of precum spreading across the front of your jeans tells me you’re having some fun.

The fries are pushed along by a couple of burgers and a single-serving pie, and I’m breathing hard after every swallow trying to get air, but I already know I can’t ask you to slow down — the first time that you told me “You don’t need air, cubby. If you pass out, it’s easier to stuff the food in,” you made sure it happened, so I’d know what it’d be like.

Sometimes I wish I knew why it turned me on so much.

But today I held it together, today I managed to gulp down dinner while remaining conscious, and I lay there, a bloated mess of a polar bear with a hard round belly spilling out over the arms of the chair, as you shucked off your jeans and started stroking yourself.

I remember when those ten inches were a lot for me. And then the day came you said my hole was too loose to fuck anymore, and it’s only been plugs since then, and the plugs keep getting bigger…

Well, it hasn’t only been plugs. Sometimes you’ll slide that dick into me and fill me with your piss, teasing me about how I can’t feel it. (Of course I can feel it — just like the way I can feel the way every drop spills back out into my diaper.) And sometimes you do fuck my throat with it, on the rare occasion when you’ve run out of things to stuff me with. But mostly I’m just living porn for you to get off to, a freakshow to spill your load over as you cram trash down its throat.

You stuff the empty burger wrapper past my lips. I chew obediently; even though it’s bland and uncomfortable and not food, something about the way it makes you stroke faster, the way it makes you spurt pre over my chest, or the way it makes you gasp at how submissive I can be for you… It just has me grinding my own buried dick, spilling precum into my diaper.

I’m your toy. Your trashbin. I hate it. But I love it.

I struggle to swallow, and manage to down the wrapper and the cardboard carton the pie came in before you lose patience again and get back to cramming my gullet with ‘dinner’.

You stand over me, dick in one hand as you stuff a few handfuls of dry napkins down my throat with the other, and even though I’m a little distracted with trying to cough it all back up I can tell you’re close to blowing your load.

“My fuckin’ garbage disposal.”

You break a spork in half, and cram it in after the paper, along with the unused ketchup packets. (You started getting more forceful once you noticed you weren’t tearing up my throat anymore. At least, that’s what you told me. I’m sure it would’ve happened anyway.)

As the last swallows disappear down my throat, you plant your hand on my face to support you as you shoot half a dozen heavy strings of cum across my shoulder.

“What a good fucking toy.”

You leave me where I am — bound to the recliner, covered in cum and filth, uselessly watching that top third of the TV screen that I can still see over my bloated gut — and go to wash up.

Somehow it makes me feel even filthier to think of all the seed and shit drying on me while you’re getting clean. All the trash my body’s trying to digest.

I gasp unconsciously as the big plug in my ass slides out, held half in place by the tightly-taped diaper.

I’m wrecked from end to end, I think, feeling the shit you just crammed back into me spilling back out over the plug. It won’t be long before it’s overflowing my padding again, a foul mess stewing beneath my growing thighs till you decide to check my diaper.

A few minutes later you’re back on the couch beside my recliner, clean and naked and watching TV with me. It’s the closest we get to personal time together; people like you don’t really spend a lot of time socializing with trashbins like me.

It’s still nice just to be around you, even while I struggle with the pain of a stomach full of garbage.

Even when that stomach full of garbage lets out a treacherous rumble that you take for further hunger.

Even when you’re standing over me with your disapproving stare, giving my hurting belly a slap that makes it wobble.

“Still hungry, are you? You know that with all that cash we’ve gotta take out for your new plug, we’re not gonna be able to buy you a lot of food for a while.”

I whimper. You never believe me when I tell you I wasn’t really hungry; I’m not sure I believe it anymore myself.

“And you’ve eaten all the trash too, like a good garbage disposal. You’ve been so good, I can’t just let you keep running on empty…”

You climb on top of me, sitting on my muzzle and leaning over to hug my belly as you line up your asshole with my lips. I love you so much.

“Luckily I have something else I can feed you…”